


Fate, Logic, and Other Confusing Things

by Bumblebee_90



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Dirty Talk, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Sex, F/M, POV Alternating, Romance, Werewolf Mates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 07:00:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18493783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bumblebee_90/pseuds/Bumblebee_90
Summary: Post-war life is about as horrible as war life was, as far as Fenrir Greyback is concerned.  Exonerated for his part in the Second Wizarding War, Fen finds himself and his pack at the mercy of the Ministry's new, utterly ridiculous initiative for werewolves: register and be monitored, or take a potion preventative to control the lycanthropy.  It is while at the Ministry, he finds himself at the mercy of something--or someone else--his long awaited mate.Enter Eve Martin.  Public defender for the Ministry, Eve takes the cases everyone else refuses.  Logic is real, fate is not, and people displaying a kindness towards others deserve a fair shot.  And that would not include Fenrir Greyback.  Through trials, tribulations, crimes, and compromise, Fenrir and Eve will learn all about fate, logic, and other confusing things.





	1. Mate

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is the first fanfic I've ever put out there for the world. I've written a few solely for myself, but wanted to push myself a little by sharing one. I've altered some facts about werewolves and criminal trials in the Wizarding World to help fit the story line (sorry, if you're a purist). Also, clearly Fenrir isn't going to be overtly evil in this story. I've read a few stories over the years that treated him more like a misunderstood character, and wanted to give it a try myself. Outright HP characters are clearly not mine, while OCs definitely are.

He growled quietly at yet one more Ministry worker-bee who eyed him with suspicion.  Fenrir Greyback clenched his fist as he rounded the corner to the Regulation of Magical Creatures department, and his appointment with Hermione Granger-Weasley.  He mentally sneered at the idea of the nosy witch and her happy life, never too busy to meddle in the affairs of others.  If it weren’t for her and her infuriating and offensive drive to help others, consulting books rather than the actual living beings involved, he wouldn’t be here.  He growled to himself as he continued skulking down the hall, his fierce scowl helping to part the seemingly endless stream of Ministry workers.

He despised everything about the Ministry, particularly being physically in the building with all the people who despised his kind.  They had all patted themselves on the back when they passed protections for werewolves from discrimination, so bloody proud of themselves for giving the illusion that they all cared about everyone post-war.  They were especially proud of their compromise-- a concession requiring all werewolf packs to be registered and undergo checks to ensure the pack wasn’t attacking unsuspecting muggles—or worse, wizards—if the pack refused potion interventions to regulate the impact of lycanthropy.  Having considered the potion to be a means of denying who they were, his pack had decided to register.  It had been a fairly easy decision, all things considered.  His pack had met in their dining hall in their compound and twenty minutes later decided the better of two evils was to do the damn registration so they could transform as normal, but keep as far under the radar. 

It wasn’t exactly easy to remain inconspicuous.  Fenrir Greyback was, perhaps, the most notorious werewolf alive, and as the alpha of his pack, it was difficult to avoid notice.  His relationship to his reputation was complicated.  It served to keep unwanted visitors away—which was nice—but it also invited more prejudice upon his pack than others faced.  For this reason, Fenrir had moved his pack to the remote forests of Scotland, far away from prying eyes.  It was also the reason why he had tried to get his beta, Larken, to go to the registration meeting in his stead.  He would be able to avoid unwanted attention to his pack, plus he couldn’t guarantee he would be able to control his anger and frustration at all the self-satisfied smiles at the Ministry.  Larken had merely laughed, reread the missive, and smirked when he declared the alpha’s attendance was mandatory.

Fenrir stalked to the waiting area of Granger-Weasley’s office, his rear barely hitting one of the rigid chairs before the secretary was calling him to see the almost-deified witch herself. She sat behind her neatly organized desk like a queen, making him clench his fists.  She gave him a too-familiar smile which set him on edge further.  She didn’t know him.  Where did she get off looking at him like that? He had heard the former war hero sympathized with werewolves because of her association with the late Remus Lupin, and she had championed the werewolf legislation through the Wizengamot.  However smart she was, she hadn’t a bloody clue how demeaning her ridiculous law was.

“Hello, Mr. Greyback,” she greeted with a warmth that felt sickly. 

He grunted in return, taking some satisfaction in the way her smile slipped. He planted himself in the chair across from her, his fingers drumming impatiently on the arm rest. 

“Okay, you’re here today to register your pack?”  she asked, even though she had to already know why he was there.  He hated all the false niceties. 

“Yes,” he said through gritted teeth, his eyes remaining narrowed on the younger witch.

Pulling out a blank form from a stack at her right, she got her quill ready.  “And you are the alpha?”

He grunted yet again, this time in affirmation, not turning his attention from the wavy-haired witch.  He knew better than to take his eye off her—what he had seen of her, he knew she could be a force to be reckoned with, positively terrifying in some respects.  While he had been trying to appease Voldy, he had come across a few witches and wizards who had been more of a headache than others.  She was one of them.  Being in the same room with her, knowing she was thinking the same things everyone else did about him and his allegiance to Voldemort made him even more tense.  She wouldn’t understand why he did it; none of them could.  They were limited by human experience.

She wasted no time beginning her interrogation.  Her eyes never left her form as her quill scribbled down his answers as soon as they left his mouth.  Fenrir felt itchy as he answered more and more questions about his pack, hating how it felt that he was revealing their secrets. Where were they located?  How close was their proximity to any muggles?  Wizards?  How many members?  Any young?  How many older members?  How did they support themselves?  Another thing the Ministry would never understand about this damn law—making an alpha reveal so much information was only asking for violence.  He was clenching his fists so tightly it was almost painful as he tried not to act on the urge to overturn the desk and rip Granger-Weasley’s neat stacks of paper to shreds.  There were other wolves and creatures who would be certainly grateful to him if he did. It was a slight gasp that drew him out of his thoughts, just a fraction.  She began shuffling papers, looking a little more frantic.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Greyback, but I’ll have to schedule your visit by owl.  I’ve got a lunch meeting I need to get to.”

He bit back a growl.  He wasn’t angry that this blasted meeting was being cut short, per se, but he was angry that the business wasn’t going to simply be concluded.

“You can’t just schedule something now?”  It irritated him further that his anger didn’t seem to faze the witch.

She shook her head, pulling a purse strap over her head as she rose. “I’m sorry.  I’m already running late, and I’ve got meetings the rest of the day.  I can owl you tomorrow.”

Owling tomorrow?  It would mean that he wouldn’t have to come back in, for which he would be glad; there were at least ten dozen other places he would rather be than back at the ministry.  He opened his mouth to respond, but the little swot was already opening her office door.  Almost as though she just remembered she was leaving a notorious werewolf in an ungracious manner, she turned back to him with that nauseating smile across her lips. “Have a nice afternoon, Mr. Greyback.”

He narrowed her eyes at the witch’s retreating form, growling lowly at the dismissal.

****

Eve held her groan as long as she could until her newest client left.  As soon as Mr. Cullum Riley turned the corner, she lightly beat her head against the doorway and groaned until her heart’s content.  The muffled laughter from her right had Eve peeking from around the doorway. 

“What?”  she murmured, the edge of her lips ticking upward into a reluctant grin at her longtime secretary, Gretchen Mallory.  The older woman had been with Eve for the past four years as Eve had grown into one of the best, albeit controversial, public defenders the Ministry had.  Eve was known for taking the cases the other defenders didn’t want—the most vulnerable, the most despised, and, unfortunately in this case, those lacking all basic common sense came her way.  She faced plenty of ridicule and condescension over the years, but Gretchen served as a calming and supportive presence—her warm brown eyes magnified by her large spectacles, the decades’ worth of laugh-lines and crows feet giving her the look of someone who could be trusted implicitly.  It was that look, combined with the fact that she had openly declared in her interview with Eve that she needed the job to support herself and her infant grandson, that made Eve hire her on the spot.

“It couldn’t have been that bad,” Gretchen answered, shuffling her papers.

Eve rolled her eyes as she pushed herself away from the support of the oak doorway. “Gretchen, honestly—the man has been accused of streaking at a Cannons match and told me he just enjoyed the freedom.  What kind of defense can I make from that?”

Bloody stupidity.  It was in moments like these Eve regretted her willingness to defend anyone.

“Temporary insanity?  That’s a popular one with muggles, isn’t it?”  Gretchen replied, good humor still evident in her tone. 

Eve appreciated the fact that her secretary was more a friend than anything else, especially since her job was full of cases that were far from humorous.  Recently, all her attention had been on compiling a defense for a werewolf who had agreed to take the potion preventative rather than register his pack, only to refuse to use it.  Eve felt for the werewolf—she really did.  She couldn’t fathom what it would be like to be treated like a second-class citizen.  This particular werewolf had even refused to join up with Voldemort during the war, perhaps the only thing that worked to their advantage in this case.  Eve looked back at her secretary, refusing to start making mental case notes at the moment.

She tapped in chin in contemplation. “I think Ron was at that match.  Do you think I could claim conflict of interest and get reassigned?  I’m sure Ron was traumatized.  I could ask Hermione…”  Eve trailed off.  Shit.  Hermione.  She looked frantically up at the clock.  12:07.  Double shit.

Gretchen stifled her smile making Eve grin.  “You’ll be late for lunch if you don’t get a move on,” she reminded the lawyer.

“Drat,” Eve muttered, running back into her office.  Without stopping, she snatched her purse and ran back out yelling her goodbyes to her loyal secretary.

Not caring how she looked, Eve ran through the halls of the Ministry as quickly as she could to the apparition point.  She prided herself on being rather quick on her feet, at least as quick as her mind worked.  She dodged one of the elves who was dusting, calling out her apologies as she continued running.  Hermione would be proud of her—she’d have to remember to tell her at lunch.  The two of them had become fast friends at a Ministry event a few years ago and had been keeping a daily lunch meeting for the past two years.  Granted, the ever-punctual Hermione Granger-Weasley wouldn’t appreciate Eve being late.  Again. 

Eve didn’t have many friends, partially because she preferred the company of her work.  She had come to find over the course of her 27 years that most people came with judgments about her without determining all the facts.  As a great lover of fact and truth, Eve couldn’t abide the knee-jerk assumptions.  With Hermione, however, she found someone who enjoyed learning as much as she did.  Now, they didn’t always see eye-to-eye, but Hermione had faced her own amount of prejudice and assumptions.  Hermione understood her.  Even if she had the infuriating habit of always being early, if not on time.  Eve mostly found herself getting wrapped up in her own thoughts, generally late to everything.

When the apparition point came into view, Eve gave a quick mental shout out to Merlin for the barely contained head of curly brown hair quickly making its way to the same place.  For the first time in a long time, it seemed the gods were on Eve’s side.  She needed something to go right for her after feeling so dejected with the werewolf case and feeling so ridiculous with her latest one.

“Hermione!”  She called, waving to her friend.

****

Fenrir skulked behind bloody Hermione Granger-Weasley to the apparition point.  The busyness of the lobby didn’t do anything to deter his focus on the woman’s back and his desire to rip out her jugular for her presumptuousness and intrusion into his pack.  Hell, he would’ve done the same to her just because she was one of them, one who revered this ridiculous gilded Ministry.  He hated her.  He hated this building.  He hated these people.  He hated the fakeness of it all.  He was just about to catch up to Granger-Weasley and tell her shove her damn check-in when he felt himself go a bit light headed.  He stopped where he was, taking a deep breath to steady himself.  His heart began to race, his body going on high-alert as he smelled the most alluring, beautiful scent he had ever smelled.  One word thundered through his mind.

_Mate._

He had seen wolf after wolf in his pack find their mates, never to find his.  Werewolves had one mate for life, and he had never experienced that moment of discovery when he found his mate.  He had been with a whole host of women, some of them even trying to convince him that they should mate even though he didn’t feel this pull; none of them had ever done this to him.  While he had waited for this moment for years, he hadn’t dreamt it would feel like this much of a…rush.  It was like happiness and freedom—the greatest high imaginable.  His eyes opened wide at the realization: his mate was close.  Unconcerned with the looks he was getting, he raised his nose to try and track her.  In this sea of people, _she_ was here. 

A voice—a silky, rich, feminine voice called out for Granger-Weasley, and somehow instinctively he knew it was her, his mate.  His eyes quickly found her waving to the insufferable know-it-all.  As he took some quick steps toward the pair, her scent got stronger making his heart race faster.  She was the most gorgeous being he had ever laid eyes on--long auburn hair that hit between her shoulder blades and sparkling green eyes.  Her lips were a deep pink color, and he could make out every curve of her body in her pencil skirt and blouse.  They would make good-looking cubs, he decided, the observation sending a punch of something powerful to his core.    

And in an instant, she was gone.

A whimper escaped as he already felt in mourning over her disapparition. He didn’t know her name, why she was here, what she did, what she liked, what she didn’t like.  But he knew she was his.  She was beautiful, and she was _his_. 

As he apparated back to his pack’s compound, the swiftness of his loneliness was replaced by determination.  He didn’t often think about how he was mateless—he was 34, still young by all accounts.  There were times, though, usually leading up to the full moon, when he would lay in his bed and wonder about her. The picture was always incomplete.  He had tried to fill it in—sometimes she was a brunette, sometimes a blonde.  Sometimes she would have curly hair, sometimes it was short.  Regardless, he was always left feeling unfulfilled.  Today, however, after what he had convinced himself would be a complete disaster and waste of his day, his picture was a bit more filled in.  His mate, the one he had tried to imagine countless times, had silky looking auburn hair, vibrant green eyes, a life about her that excited every cell in his body.  It finally felt right, the image in his head.  Now that he knew she existed, he had to hunt for her.  It was as simple as that. 

He strode through the halls of the compound, light pouring in from the many windows.  The structure had been designed to accommodate a large pack of werewolves, seeing as they were social creatures with a defined hierarchy.  It was a bit bare bones, with little in the way of wall-hangings and the like, but it was cozy enough, and it was home.  There were clusters of rooms for families, as well as a large den and eating area for everyone to gather to socialize.

Fenrir was quite proud of his pack.  Everyone had a function, and everyone contributed to their livelihood.  They created and sold iron products and accepted commissions, so long as no silver was requested.  They knitted and sewed and sold their creations.  A few of his pack worked in some muggle stores; wizarding stores, despite the fact that they couldn’t outright say they wouldn’t hire them because of the lycanthropy, were still notoriously toxic work environments for his kind.  While they may not be able to do everything freely in the world, here in their compound they led a relatively peaceful existence.  Until the full moon, that is.  They could get a little rowdy then.

As much as he hated the idea of his pack being monitored, Fenrir would do what was necessary to protect his pack.  He would play the ministry’s game until he found a way out of it.  He smirked to himself as he rounded the corner to the den.  Besides, if he hadn’t gone to register, he wouldn’t have found his mate.  He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to recall her scent.  It was sun, fresh air, and wildflowers.  He could picture her outside-—those green eyes glittering.

He opened his eyes and he narrowed them at his beta.  Larken had undoubtedly been waiting here for him as a good beta would for the past thirty minutes.  Larken, however, was only a marginally good beta.  He had a carefree charm about him, which Fenrir did not possess; his blue eyes and sandy blonde hair making him more traditionally handsome, while Fenrir could only be described as fierce.  It made sense, he supposed, since he was the alpha and Larken was the beta.  Sometimes it still rankled. Despite that, Larken had wormed his way into more of friend role, often giving Fenrir unsolicited advice.  Until Fenrir knocked him down a peg.  He had also undoubtedly witnessed Fenrir thinking about his mate, a thought that sent a low growl traveling through Fenrir’s body.  Larken had the nerve to raise an eyebrow at the alpha, clearly wondering how things went at the Ministry.

“What is it?”  Fenrir asked, moving to sit in his normal chair.  The burgundy chair was a bit of an eyesore, but certainly was more comfortable than the sad excuse of a chair at the Ministry.

“I expected you’d be angrier coming back from the Ministry.”  He replied with a smirk.

Fenrir sighed.  He really was a good beta; Fenrir wouldn’t have chosen anyone else to take Larken’s place, even if he was bloody annoying.   He was loyal and trustworthy, an excellent second-in-command.  “I’m still bloody angry about the Ministry, but something happened right before I left.”

“What?”  Larken asked, his mind still clearly on alert for potential threats.

“I finally found my mate.”

The reaction took but an instant.  Larken whooped and crushed Fenrir into an embrace.  Larken was a few years younger than Fenrir and had already found his mate, Iris, two years ago.  They had two pups now--two blonde-headed, bobbling twins.  He had insisted that Fenrir would find his mate soon, though he had been insisting such for years.  The happiness of his beta made Fenrir grin.

“Where is she?”  Larken asked, breathing deeply to sense the new presence.

The gesture made something in Fenrir’s chest clench.  It made it more painfully evident that his mate was still nameless to him and still not here.  “Ah.  That’s the problem.  She disapparated before I could get to her.”

Larken frowned before the lines at the corner of his mouth softened.  Fenrir could tell his second in command had shifted into planning mode.  While he looked carefree, Larken was one of the most strategic planners he had ever met.  It was undeniably useful to have someone like him to assist in plans for the pack.  “Do you know what you’ll do?” Larken asked, his arms folded across his chest.

Fenrir nodded.  “That’s what I was just thinking about.  I assume she works at the Ministry.  I’ll just have to go back.  Granger-Weasley told me she was going to owl to set up her damn check-in meeting here, but I think I’d prefer my answers face-to-face.  My mate knows her in some way.  They left together.”

Larken shifted in his seat and raised a skeptical eyebrow.  “Your mate is close to the registration officer?”

Fenrir could read his beta’s thoughts loud and clear.  It wasn’t preferable to have a mate so entrenched in an institution he deplored, but he couldn’t alter fate.  It was what it was.  His mate worked there, and not only that, but she was apparently on good terms with perhaps the greatest bane to his existence.  He would take overt prejudice and violence any day over the presumptions of his current registration officer. “I don’t like it either.  She doesn’t work in the regulation office; I would’ve smelled her in there if she did.  I only smelled her in the lobby.” 

Larken pursed his lips in thought. “Still…” he drawled.

Frustration flashed through Fenrir’s system.  He didn’t like the implication that his beta was making, that somehow since she knew Granger-Weasley that she shouldn’t be trusted, that she shouldn’t be his mate. “She’s _mine,_ beta.  She doesn’t know it yet, but any possible opinions she has about wolves are about to change.  Mark my words—my mate will know me, and once she does, any allegiance she has to that fucking ministry will be over.”  Fenrir declared. 

It took a moment, but Larken finally gave his alpha a sly grin.  “I’ve waited a long time for this moment.”

“Not as long as I have,” Fenrir replied with a derisive snort.

“The day where my alpha is brought to his knees by his mate,” Larken said, shaking his head at the thought.  “I don’t know if you knew this, but you may think you’ll be in charge of your mate, but she only lets you think that.”

It was Fenrir’s turn to raise an assessing eyebrow.  “Just because you let your mate walk all over you doesn’t mean mine will.”

Larken chuckled in amusement. “Trust me, Fen.  You’re quickly going to realize that you’d do anything for her.  Things you never thought you’d do.  Now, unrelated to your mate, we’ve gotten a request.”

A request.  It took Fenrir a few beats to get his mind off his mate—there wasn’t a lot that he wouldn’t consider doing for her, but the idea that eventually nothing would be off limits made him a little frustrated.  This request, however, was a good way to squash some of the frustration.  While it was true that every member of the pack had a job that helped everyone live, Fenrir and his beta dealt with an occupation that was lucrative and definitely illegal. 

The two wolves were hired killers, their expertise coming at an astronomically high price.  It had started right after the war when Fenrir had been sought out by a former Death Eater who wanted retribution for the killing of his daughter at the Battle of Hogwarts.  The man’s child had been one of the few Slytherins inducted into the student militia group, and she had been killed by another Death Eater.  The man had offered more galleons than Fenrir had ever seen.  At this point, Fenrir had been cleared by the Wizengamot, his memories of Voldy’s coercion exonerating him from prison considering he had been acting out of instinct for his pack.  Thinking of how the result of the war had put a hardship on his pack, Fenrir realized this would be a quick way to get food and supplies to begin rebuilding their lives.  So the hit was arranged, carefully executed, and the money was collected.  Ever since, Fenrir and Larken took care of other people’s problems, business coming through hushed word-of-mouth through prestigious families, still for a large price.

“What’s the context?”  Fenrir asked. 

“A witch realized her husband has been taking money from their family accounts to finance a mistress.”

Fenrir nodded.  He was selective about the hits they accepted, knowing that if they took on everything they were offered there was no way they could charge what they did; their service seemed more exclusive that way.  When Fenrir had first begun, he had decided that there were a few indiscretions he would always accept—murder, rape, and adultery.  Adultery didn’t seem like much when compared to the other two in the trinity, but Fenrir couldn’t abide by adultery.  Fidelity—well, loyalty, he supposed—was one thing he valued over almost everything in this life.

“Tell her we’ll do it,” he announced to Larken.  Larken gave an easy smile in response.

“I’ll get the details so you can begin to plan.  In the meantime, I guess I’ll leave you to thoughts of your mate.” Larken said, wriggling his eyebrows at his alpha as he rose and made his way to the office door.

With a suggestive wink that had Fenrir narrowing his eyes, his beta left the room.  Fenrir stared at the sun streaming on the floor, wondering how it would light his mate’s skin.


	2. A lunch, a hunt, and a trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laying some plot points via interactions with Eve and Hermione, Fenrir learns a name, and Eve does her thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I proooooobably should've mentioned. Sorry!  
> 1) This isn't a total slow-burn, but it's definitely not fast either. Medium-burn? Could that be a thing?  
> 2) I know that Fenrir is supposed to be older in canon. For my purposes, he's going to be younger, which means he also isn't the one who turned Remus.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

“So was he as scary as he was during the war?”  Eve asked, munching on her sandwich.

Eve and Hermione were settled at their normal table at their normal café eating their normal lunches.  It was at this table that they both listened to each other’s lives, offering advice and companionable outrage at frustrations.  Since neither woman had any particularly close girlfriends, they filled that void for each other.  Eve watched as Hermione mulled over her answer, making Eve smirk.  She knew what her friend wanted to say, but that her conscience wouldn’t allow her to.  Hermione constantly wanted to give every marginalized creature the benefit of the doubt.  The trouble in this instance was Fenrir Greyback’s past.  The werewolf had fought for Voldemort and permanently marred Hermione’s brother-in-law—both actions undeniably immoral, while declared non-criminal by the Wizengamot.  While both women firmly believed in the equality of all magical beings, Eve drew the line at criminal behavior.  Sure, the Wizengamot had made its ruling. It didn’t mean Eve had to believe it or agree with it.  Memories could be altered, rules could be bent.  Until she got verification for herself that the memories were untampered, Eve was inclined to continue along her line of thought. She found she had little positivity where people aligned with a murderous psychopath were concerned.

“He wasn’t scary, per se.  I could tell he was frustrated giving me so much information.  You know werewolves are protective creatures.  But it really was the best compromise we could reach in order to give werewolves wider freedoms.”  Hermione explained with a flick of her fork.

Eve snorted before taking a sip of her water. “Meaning he was just as scary as he was during the war.” 

Hermione sighed.  “I don’t think Fenrir Greyback was ever really scary.  I just find it hard to wholeheartedly help him knowing he was the one who attacked Bill.  You know I’ll never hear the end of it from all the Weasleys.”

Eve supposed Hermione had every reason to feel reluctant when it came to dealing with the ire of the Weasleys, specifically the Weasley matriarch.  Molly Weasley could be the most terrifying person Eve had ever encountered when she wanted to be.  Eve sighed. “Maybe some creatures don’t deserve help, Hermione.  Especially when they cavort with the enemy.  Someone like Lavender, for instance—fought for a good cause, life changed forever, facing a persecution that dates back to the beginning of time,” Eve enumerated on her fingers.  “Someone like her deserves help.  Genuine help.  Someone like Tiberius Hawkins—he deserves genuine help.  Not that I fully believe that legislation _was_ the best way to go about it—”

“You thought it was at the time I was trying to get it through the Ministry!” Hermione interjected.

“Sure, I did.  Then I talked to Tiberius about it, saw how it impacted his pack, and the logical conclusion is that there’s no way in hell it makes werewolves equal.  Otherwise, he wouldn’t be going on trial for not taking a damn potion.” 

Eve watched as her friend’s lips weren’t crooked in consideration.  She knew that Hermione had spent a lot of time, energy, and political will trying to get something pushed through for the werewolves.  While it was nice that it was illegal for business to discriminate about them in hiring, and while it was nice that it took into consideration their impulse control issues and customs, it still had a long way to go before it made anyone truly equal.  Poor Hermione.

“My point still remains that while it could help out some truly great people like Lavender and Tiberius, and while I know that you did the best you could with the people who currently control everything, it still also helps out people who killed at the bidding of a psychopath, namely Fenrir Greyback.”  Eve offered in a somewhat conciliatory fashion, still unwilling to totally bend.

“Maybe he had reasons.  I don’t know.  Neither of us had access to his memories from the trial.  All I do know right now is that I’m firmly finished talking about Fenrir Greyback.  Every time I do I feel guilty all over again about how I left his meeting.”  Hermione replied, squeezing her eyes tightly and shaking her head.

Eve snorted. When Hermione had shared that she had basically abandoned one of Voldemort’s deadliest weapons in her office to go to lunch, Eve about died from laughter.  Loud laughter, right in the middle of the café.  It hadn’t done much to console Hermione, but in times like this, that wasn’t Eve’s job as her friend. “I never asked you to blow off a notorious werewolf, Hermione,” Eve teased.

“Ha ha,” Hermione deadpanned.  “So, tell me the details about this party,” she said, changing the subject.

Eve groaned causing Hermione to grin.  Of course Hermione would deflect attention from what Eve considered a far superior topic, even if it was only because it didn’t involve her.  Earlier that morning, before having to handle her streaker case, Eve’s department head had issued an invitation to a masquerade for his 25th wedding anniversary.  She had hoped four years ago that the masquerade was a one-time thing, but apparently the man’s wife wanted one.  Every year.  Despite the fact that her hopes had been deflated four years running, Eve still had her fingers crossed about this one.  That is, until she had gotten the invitation.

The balls were everything Eve despised.  Eve didn’t like big parties filled to the brim with people she didn’t know.  She didn’t like making small talk, and she especially hated masks or costumes of any kind.  Unfortunately, there was no way she could decline.  Eve was already so far out on the fringe in her department that snubbing said invitation would certainly seal her fate as unpromotionable.  In light of her standing in the public defender’s office, Eve had ventured out and gotten increasingly nicer dresses, been increasingly strategic about being seen, and increasingly hated every minute of it. Which is exactly what she told her friend.

“You know what this means, right?”  Hermione asked, eyebrow ticked.

“What?”  Eve asked with guarded curiosity.

“We’ll have to go out and find you the perfect dress and mask!”

Eve couldn’t help that her instinct was the roll her eyes.  Ever since the first blasted ball, Hermione had been insisting that she was some kind of marvel when it came to formal wear and formal occasions.  She constantly recited, with pride, how she had chosen her gown and done own hair and makeup and landed a quidditch star as her date for the Yule Ball.  While Hermione had accomplished plenty in her life, it was apparent that one night in her fourth year was important to her.  Not that Hermione would necessarily admit that to many people.  Once Eve had tried to bring the story up in mixed company, and Hermione had turned beet-red and refused to talk to her for the day.  With everyone else, Hermione wanted to be known for her mind.  With her real friends, she could be everything she was, which Eve could appreciate.

“Listen, just because you had one ball where everyone’s jaws drop when they looked at you doesn’t mean you’re some fashion mastermind.”  Eve pointed out, taking another sip of her water.  She always argued this point to no avail.

Hermione’s jaw snapped open with a mock sound of shock.  “It most certainly does!  Need I remind you that one person at this table is now happily married to one of those guys whose jaw dropped?”  She jabbed her fork at Eve to emphasize each word.

Eve scoffed.  “Please!  Ronald would’ve still married you had you shown up in a burlap sack.”  Eve smirked at the way Hermione pursed her lips.  She knew she had her friend there.

“My point is this could be an excellent opportunity to meet someone.  Jack Wells will probably be there, and he’s pretty handsome.”

Jack Wells.  The man was outrageously handsome. So much so, that Adonis would’ve been jealous.  Jack Wells was also a higher up in the public defender’s office.  They had worked together for the past year and spoken all of ten words to each other.  Not that Eve hadn’t looked her fill.  She hadn’t yet seen him in action at one of their boss’ parties, but she had seen him in the courtroom.  He was smart, he was good-looking—he was almost too perfect.  Eve raised her eyebrow.

“Jack Wells is probably only attracted to himself,” she pointed out.

Hermione grinned.  “Maybe so.  But wouldn’t it be wonderful to find out?  It’s been so long since you’ve been out, and I can guarantee I can have you looking like a dynamo.”

“A dynamo?” Eve snorted.  She knew it had been a long time since she’d been out with anyone.  It wasn’t that she didn’t try…well, maybe that was part of it, but the larger issue was that just about every man who seemed interesting was decidedly uninteresting once she got to know him.  Either that, or he was decidedly interesting and decidedly uninterested in her, as it seemed was the case with Jack Wells.  She had made a New Year’s resolution to seriously up her dating game this past year, and all she ended up with was a fabulous underwear collection and no one to show it to.  Hermione was well-intentioned, but pushy in her efforts to get Eve into a relationship with someone.  While Eve made it a point to shut down many of her friend’s efforts, every once in a while she indulged her. 

Eve sighed. “Look, you have my permission to help me find a dress but be warned—my objective is to stick around this party for as long as necessary to show I put forth an effort.  I highly doubt that I would ever find someone remotely interesting at this type of thing.”

****

The hunt was on.  The thought made Fenrir grin as he rounded the corner to the registration office just as he had done the day before, the only difference being that this time it was wholly his choice to be here.  He was going to find his mate again, starting with getting some information out of Granger-Weasley.  He and Larken had spent some time strategizing, eventually deciding that Fenrir would show up at the registration office first thing in the morning to schedule Granger-Weasley’s visit.  He would then use a little emotional manipulation to get the witch to talk about her lunch meeting with his mate, primarily what her name was.  He could do a lot with a name. He had perhaps too much experience finding people with just a name, granted most times there was some financial benefit to it.  This time the stakes were higher; this time he was trying to find his mate.

Which was precisely why Fenrir was opening Granger-Weasley’s door before her secretary could even announce him.

“Mr. Greyback!”  Hermione exclaimed, quickly rising from behind her desk, hair moving almost wildly in reaction.

“I do believe I’m owed an apology from yesterday.”  Fenrir announced, making his way to that godforsaken chair he had sat in previously.

Her eyes grew wide. “Oh, yes, my lunch.  I’m sorry, Mr. Greyback—it’s just that…nevermind.  You’re right.  I’m sorry.” She apologized, waving off her explanation as unnecessary.

Fenrir internally groaned. She didn’t understand how patently necessary the explanation was to his purposes. “What is it?  I divulged a ridiculous amount of personal information to you.  I think I at least deserve to know why I was so unceremoniously cut off yesterday.”

She blushed as she resettled in her seat and began reaching for what he presumed was his file.  “I was meeting my friend.”

“You couldn’t meet your friend some other time?”

She sighed. “You see, Eve and I have a standing lunch thing.”

Eve. The sound of it sent something powerful down his spine. It seemed to fit her perfectly—temptation and impending night. He knew he had to maintain a certain amount of indignity in order to sell his act, being well-versed on making others believe what he wanted them to believe (a skill he had honed under old Voldy), so he couldn’t reveal that he really couldn’t give a damn about what kind of meeting it was.  “You cut my appointment short because of a _lunch meeting?_ ” he asked, his words dripping with the appropriate amount of derision and judgement.  Her cheeks turned red, looking properly chastised.

“She’s one of my closest friends,” she shared.  “We actually met here at the Ministry.”

 “The only thing worse than one Ministry official is two.”  Fenrir replied, hoping to get the witch to continue talking.  He wanted to know everything he could about his mate.

She narrowed her eyes at him, clearly offended. “It’s people like Eve who make sure people like you get a fair shot.  She’s actually representing a werewolf tomorrow in front of the Wizengamot.  She’s a public defender.” She huffed.

“Are you suggesting that I need one?”

“No, Mr. Greyback.  I just think you should know there are people on your side.”

“My side.”  Fenrir didn’t like the direction of the conversation.  He didn’t like thinking about Eve being on a different side than his, that someone would have to stoop to be ‘on his side’. 

“The side of equality.”  She clarified, as if he didn’t understand what she was implying.

“Let’s be clear—there is nothing about this legislation that makes my kind equal with yours.  If we were equals, I wouldn’t have to set up check-in meetings with you.  Does anyone set up meetings to inspect where you live?”  He asked, his anger piqued.

“No,” she replied quietly, the blush heightening in her cheeks. 

“That’s what I thought.  You’ll come Thursday. 3:00.”  He announced, rising unceremoniously as she had the day before.  Without a goodbye, Fenrir turned and left.

There was still a little flame of anger as Fenrir left Granger-Weasley’s office, but it was smothered the more he thought about what he had learned.  His mate was Eve.  Eve was a lawyer.  The thought filled him with some amount of wonder.  He had never considered what his mate’s name would be, or what she would do for a living, but he didn’t think he would ever have pictured her as a lawyer.  It seemed a little strange that someone like him, who unfortunately had his own scrapes with the law as well as an illegal job, would find himself with a lawyer as a mate. Not only was she a lawyer, but she was defending a werewolf.  There was only one werewolf on trial in recent news, and that was a fellow by the name of Tiberius Hawkins.  He was accused of accepting the potion intervention from the Ministry, but not actually consuming it.  This case had huge implications for the Ministry, and he knew that Hawkins had been turned down by a few lawyers who hadn’t wanted to go against the Ministry.  His mate, however, had apparently accepted.  The thought filled him with pride.

Instead of continuing towards the apparition point, Fenrir turned right and stalked down the hall to where the public defenders housed their offices.  He wasn’t entirely certain what he’d say to her, but he knew that he needed to see her, to be near her.  He had only seen her for an instant yesterday, but that little exposure had sunk its teeth into him and he had begun to crave her. 

Glittering bronze nameplates announced each office.  Quickly dismissing names, he stopped breathless in front of the one with her name on it: _Eve Martin_.  He took a deep breath, smelling a faint trace of her scent.  Even that tiny bit sent his pulse humming.  Twisting the knob, Fenrir was greeted by a small waiting area—it was two chairs and a desk. There were a few children’s books and blocks, as well as some outdated magazines on a table between the chairs.  Behind the desk was an older woman who gave Fenrir a smile.  He raised his eyebrow at the expression.  He was a recognizable figure, dishonorable some might claim.  The only reason he wasn’t in Azkaban was because he had argued that he was acting on best interest of his pack.  Either this woman was blind (as evident by her large spectacles), or she might be a bit daft.

“How can I help you, Mr. Greyback?”  She asked.

Fenrir directed his attention to a nameplate on her desk.  _Gretchen Mallory_.  A door was adjacent to her back.  It seemed this woman was his mate’s guard.  The idea of someone else guarding his mate besides him made him growl quietly to himself.  His mate was supposed to rely on him—not some feeble middle-aged woman.

“I need to see Eve Martin,” he replied, his fist clenched.

“She’s not in at the moment.”  The woman answered.

It made sense, then, why her scent wasn’t as strong.  If she was just behind that door, Fenrir would certainly be able to smell her more strongly.  “Where is she?”

“She’s preparing for quite a big case tomorrow, Mr. Greyback.  She was going to spend the day at Azkaban with her client before making some rounds.  Would you like to leave a message?  If you require immediate legal assistance, I’m sure I could get Mr. Dunwoody or Mr. Halston to—”

“No,’ he interrupted.  The last thing he wanted was for his mate to think he needed legal assistance.  He mulled over his options.  He couldn’t very well tell her that she was his forever in a dictated message.  He also couldn’t say nothing because then his visit would be open to interpretation.  A flash of inspiration hit.  “Tell her that I heard she was representing a wolf.  If there’s anything my pack and I can do to help, please let me know.”

Gretchen Mallory’s quill worked quickly as she nodded.  “Anything else?”  She asked with another smile.

“No,” he replied.  “That’s all.”

At least now he had another reason to see her tomorrow.

****

“Objection,” Eve declared with her usual confidence.  Marlon Jaggers had been prattling on, making assertion after assertion about Tiberius Hawkins for the past five minutes.  Baseless accusations abounded, and frankly, Eve was getting tired of it.

“On what grounds?” Kingsley asked, peering over his spectacles.  The Minister of Magic didn’t usually concern himself with criminal trials, but since this one was the first to arise from the newly developed werewolf legislation, he had made room in his schedule to oversee proceedings and weigh in with the other assorted who’s-who in their maroon robes.

_On the grounds that Jaggers is a moron who clearly neglected to build his case on actual law?_

Biting back her frustration, Eve rose and gave a reassuring look to Tiberius.  Poor chap.  Just like every other defendant before him, he had been stuck in a chair in the middle of the circle of benches in the damp dungeon where the Wizengamot had met for centuries.  He looked positively petrified in his threadbare prison uniform.  Eve knew it had been a deliberate choice.  The prosecutor—rightly or wrongly--had more influence over the defendant’s appearance in court.  As low a blow as it was, the prosecution had Tiberius in the uniform for one reason and one reason alone: to already paint him as a criminal.  It was a smart but morally corrupt move.

“Mr. Jaggers raised facts that are not pertinent to the allegations against my client. Not to mention his statements alluding to werewolves aligning themselves with Voldemort during the war were designed to draw non-existent parallels between my client and other wolves unrelated to him or his pack.  As stated before, my client and his pack remained neutral during the war.”  Eve replied, taking secret pleasure in the crimson shade of anger spread across Jaggers’ face.  Marlon Jaggers was one of the biggest blowhards she had ever met.  Arguing cases against him was tedious only because he was pompous.

“Objection noted and accepted,” Kingsley replied.  “Do you have any other questions for the defendant?” he asked, an eyebrow raised towards the prosecutor.

“No, Minister,” Jaggers replied before skulking back to his table.  Eve bit back a smile at his obvious frustration.  She loved it when Jaggers’ ego deflated a bit.

“Miss Martin?  Are you prepared for your closing argument?”

“Yes, Minister,” Eve replied with a nod.  She moved from behind her table, giving one last careful look to her notes.  She never fully fleshed-out a closing argument in her career, preferring to get a read from how the members of the Wizengamot responded to certain witnesses and questions first.  She jotted phrases that would come to mind, mark facts that seemed to really resonate with the members and commit them to memory as she summoned all the presence, passion, and power she had to really _move_ them.  It was difficult not to give Tiberius an encouraging squeeze on the shoulder as she moved by him to turn about and make as much eye contact with the all fifty members of the Wizengamot as possible.  Tiberius kept his lips pulled tight, not quite into a smile.

He had been through a lot—more than he ever needed to.  Eve knew he only went through all this because of his status, and it only added to the stress she secreted away surrounding this case.  He had been accommodating to her, asking his pack to answer her questions completely, allowing her to probe into his world.  She had assured him that nothing could be off limits from her, and he had delivered.  Not only that, but there had been support from outside packs, namely Fenrir Greyback.  The message he had left with Gretchen had been unsettling, especially the fact that he had dropped by in person to give it.  There was no way in hell she was going to have Fenrir Greyback’s name associated with Tiberius.  While Tiberius had stayed away from the war completely, Greyback had ripped apart wizard after wizard at Voldemort’s bidding.  No, there was no way she wanted that odious wolf anywhere near someone like Tiberius.

Taking a deep breath, Eve faced the Wizengamot and began outlining in exact, impassioned detail why Tiberius shouldn’t be thrown into Azkaban for the crime of abiding by his nature.  His refusal to take the potion was not done with malicious intent, rather it was designed to protect the anonymity wolves hold sacred and crucial to their survival in light of prejudice.  After accounting for all the facts and pointing out all the holes in the prosecutions cases, least of all the character assassination via a parade of so-called witnesses that went counter to testimony of every witness with prolonged contact with him, Eve felt…decent about their chances.  She wasn’t naïve as to believe that he would get off scot-free, but she had put together and presented the best case she could.

Once she had completed her argument and Jaggers had his opportunity to schmooze his way through his own statement, Kingsley rose and announced that the Wizengamot would reconvene once they had deliberated.  With the members filing out, Eve ignored the whispering surrounding them from the countless spectators and turned to her client.

Tiberius Hawkins was an older man, about fifteen years her senior.  He was the alpha of a small pack of werewolves near Lancashire and was jovial as a man could be.  He had lost a bit of the sparkle he had in his blue eyes when she first met him, and his hair was a bit grayer (no doubt from stress and Azkaban), but he managed to give her hand a squeeze when she approached him.  He was required to stay magically bound to the chair in the center of the dungeon until a verdict was rendered.  Now, with the eyes of the members off them, Eve felt freer to give him comfort.  This whole trial had been hell on him, and hell on his pack.  She looked up to the remaining mass of spectators, unsurprised to see the members of his pack—including his mate and three sons—still seated, looking down on them with anxiety.  She gave Janet, Tiberius’ mate, a nod.

“Hell of an end,” he commented, his lips tilting into a weak half-grin.

“It’s a hell of a case,” she replied, being certain to give him the warmest smile she could.  And that it was.  Eve had her share of tricky cases, but this one took the cake—the whole emotional, ulcer-inducing cake.  She had spent hours interviewing, reviewing case notes from Magical Law Enforcement, pouring over the legislation and various law tomes.  Now?  She had done everything she could, and it still didn’t feel like enough.  All she wanted was for one creature, so inherently good at his core, to overcome prejudice and make a point that fairness might be a bit more than not being fired for being a wolf.  Not for the first time, Eve wished Hermione had pressed more that the creatures this legislation impacted had a say in its creation.

“What are my chances do you think?”

Eve’s smile turned into pursed lips as she weighed their options.  “I honestly don’t know,” she answered.  “I think Jaggers’ case was weak, and I think we provided compelling testimony.  I just don’t know how much the members will be able to leave their personal thoughts out of it and rely simply on the law and fact.”

“That’s what I was worried about,” he said, his grin slipping.

She opened her mouth to give him some comfort but was immediately stopped by the sound of the doors opening.  She whipped her head around, eyes growing wide as the members were already re-entering the courtroom, maroon robes swinging almost in time.  They had been gone—what?  All of ten minutes?  Her heart sunk.  Wizarding trials were known to be quick in nature.  While muggle criminal trials could take weeks, most wizarding trials were done in a day, if not an hour if the charge was minor.  She had expected that there would be a few hours of deliberation, that she had given them something to think about. None of the witches and wizards looked at her as they filed to their seats.  For the first time in her career, she was utterly stunned.  She knew she was good at what she did.  Whenever she defended someone, even if it was a loss, the Wizengamot always deliberated for a considerable amount of time.  This though…this made her feel like she couldn’t breathe.

“All rise,” the auror at the door called as he shifted to block the exit.

Eve grabbed a hold of Tiberius’ hand, fully aware that her fingers were cold and clammy.  He clutched hers just as tightly.  She took a relaxing breath, trying to ease the tension from her body.  She had tried her best.  She had researched the hell out of this case, compiling it brick by brick, while taking apart with the prosecution’s case with as much precision as she was capable.  And now, in a blink of an eye, the Wizengamot was already ready to give a verdict.

“Tiberius Hawkins—on the charge of being uncooperative in obeying the registration law, the Wizengamot had found you guilty.”  Kingsley intoned.

Tiberius’ grip became slack as he awaited his punishment.  To compensate, Eve gripped his hand harder.

“In light of your biological nature, your non-violent history, and your neutrality in the war, we hereby sentence you to tightened participation in the registration program.  You and your pack will be closely monitored, with increased site visits and potion consumption overseen by a registration officer each month.  Do you understand?” Kinsgley concluded.

Eve barely registered Tiberius’ answer, so floored was she that he wasn’t headed for Azkaban.  Roars of approval and outrage soared through the room, and Eve was quickly crushed in Tiberius’ arms as his magical bounds were rescinded.  Realization struck her, and she finally responded, letting out a happy laugh as she squeezed her client back.


End file.
